For those of you who are unfamiliar with them and what they do, they are a UK charity dedicated to funding research into spinal muscular atrophy. As their website states, “SMA is a genetic neuromuscular disease, which means it is inherited and affects nerves responsible for muscle function. Although classified as rare, SMA is the leading genetic killer of infants and toddlers, with approximately 95% of the most severely diagnosed cases resulting in death by the age of 18 months. Children with a less severe form of SMA face the prospect of progressive muscle wasting, loss of mobility and motor function.”

As many of you already know, I also have type II spinal muscular atrophy—and as physically limiting as it is for me, I consider myself extremely fortunate (and, indeed, I am). I’m forty-eight, in relatively good health and I can pretty much expect to continue along my merry path in life, buggering it up, for a good while, yet. For some, however, it is a very different story.

So, while I realise we all have our favourite charities and causes that we help out throughout the year as well as Christmas, I hope you might consider downloading The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost. It’s priced very cheaply at £1.54, with all my royalties (£1 per sale) going to The SMA Trust. You get a wonderful cheap read, the brilliant folks at The SMA Trust get a little extra money to help fund research into finding a cure for SMA, and I get … well, the satisfaction of helping and knowing that people are reading my book. Everyone’s, as they say, a winner.

A few days ago, while tentatively considering returning to “serious” blogging, I asked a few friends what they would like to see me write about in my first few posts. Among the first responses was one from my pal Gregg Fraley, suggesting that I write about creativity and, in particular, my creative process.

I am always a little wary of writing about how I work. I’m not the superstitious type, but there is a part of me that thinks that to examine the process too closely is to run the risk of not only killing the goose that laid the golden egg, but also of chopping it up into nice bite-size pieces and stir frying it. A thorough job, you know?

But Gregg asked, and, to be fair, my work has taken something of a back seat just recently (mea culpa), so now is actually a rather good time to re-examine the particular methods I use—as I slowly and cautiously return to what I probably do best. So here goes …

I suppose I’ve always been of a similar mind to the ancients (don’t even think about it, I’m warning you!) A rather grand claim, I know, but the notion held by many ancient cultures that art is in fact a process of “discovery” rather than “creativity” especially resonates with me. Embarking on a new novel is an exploration of themes and experiences—an imitation of the peculiar world I inhabit, but (and I think this is the primary defining feature of what I do) also a refinement of that “world”. I don’t in any real sense, to my mind, build the world of my novels; I find a way into it and listen to what the characters have to tell me.

All very romantic and mystical, I know—but, of course, how this is achieved is far more prosaic.

The road to discovery for me has always been about hard graft. As some of you may already know, I never have much time for those writers and artists who fall back on the rather lame excuse of being “blocked”. That’s not to say that there are not times in our creative lives when we simply cannot work. Life and its vicissitudes simply refuse to be ignored on occasion. But if everything is going fairly well with your life and you still can’t work … well, you’re not trying hard enough.

Inspiration only rarely strikes (it does happen: The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost, for example, came to me almost fully formed at 3 o’clock in the morning—but this was very much the exception that proved the rule). Nine times out of ten, inspiration is something you have to go after with an elephant gun. It is elusive and cunning and resistant and capricious. If it comes to you unbidden, you can bet your life it was purely accidental—probably because good old inspiration was trying to avoid someone else. If you want it, you have to be prepared to suffer a little.

Now, I’m not going to suggest that creativity/discovery is an angst-filled process where every artist or writer becomes some drunken neurotic (ahem). The vast majority of us, while we might like the occasional tipple, are actually rather well adjusted. And, of course, it’s not as if we are heading down the pit for a twelve hour shift six days a week. But let’s be honest about this: in order to look at that world out there and discover aspects of it that have previously only rarely been explored, the writer or artist has to all too often look into himself/herself. And that can take a bit of effort and a lot of getting used to.

The practicalities of how this is achieved vary from writer to writer and artist to artist, of course. For me, though, it’s very much a case of “getting on with it”. A project usually begins with my looking for ideas that might hold my interest long enough to become a full-length project. How I do this is different for each project. It may require lots of surfing of the Web, bouncing around and following different threads, or sometimes conversations with friends and family might start the ball rolling—but only, only, if I am receptive and working at finding those ideas.

Once I have a fairly clear impression of what I want to “discover”, I go to work on the initial outline. Most of the time, I will outline the whole project in great detail before starting the novel itself. Occasionally, if I want to keep myself on my toes and guarantee spontaneity, I might only outline two or three chapters ahead. Either way, once I’ve made a commitment to working in a certain way, I do it.

One of the most important lessons I think I have learned as a writer (probably around the time I got my first word processor, way back) is that just because you put words down, it doesn’t mean you have to keep them. Write without worrying that what you are writing might be nonsense. Sometimes the sad truth is you have to write five sentences of nonsense just to get to something worthwhile. Put everything down. Leave nothing out. And then go back and “discover” the kernel of truth in the work by removing what doesn’t stand up.

Finally, I think it’s important to stress one major point: whatever we might call it—creativity, discovery, whatever—it should be fun. Hard work, yes, but rewarding and fulfilling hard work. If you look to the prospect of doing what you do and more often than not dread it, it’s pretty unlikely that anything worthwhile will come of it. Writing, it’s true, puts me through the wringer at times. It demands much of me. But it also has the capacity to lift me where nothing else has. It helps me make sense of the light and gives a manageable shape to the dark.

Without it, I run the risk of mislaying a part of who I am. And that would just be careless, now, wouldn’t it?

Today, friend and fellow author Jane Adams got my prepublication promo for The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost off to a fine start.

The full article can be read here, but to whet your appetite, here’s a wee snippet:

Lorna is a book about loss and memory and love and redemption – to use an overused and clichéd word. Love really does conquer all, but does so with grace and style and sex and humour and in the end subverts not just the readers’ expectations, but Lorna’s too. I’ll be writing in more depth about Lorna soon – and interviewing the author here, on the blog, just before the book is published. The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost will be published in early October and I think Gary’s many fans will be very happy.

Over recent months, I haven’t really written about current projects in these pages (though I have frequently mentioned what I’m up to on Twitter and Facebook). This has not been deliberate, merely something of an oversight. And, so, I thought today—the summer solstice—might be a good day to sum up just what I’ve been doing during the first half of the year.

Shortly after Christmas saw me editing my latest completed novel, The Juniper Faraday Project. A novel exploring the nature of trust, in the form of what I like to think of as a why-dunnit, Juniper is now going through the whole submission process. Early reactions have been promising but if mainstream publishing isn’t interested in it then I will, of course, publish it through GWM Publications.

While working on this, I was also preparing The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost for publication (October 5) and putting in place prepublication promo—more than I’ve managed with any of my other books so far. Lorna has, I believe, huge potential. It has broad appeal and … well, to date, it’s the novel I am most proud of.

Most recently, however, after finishing a proposal for a TV adaptation of Children of the Resolution(it’s “out there”, at the moment—but it is, admittedly, something of a stab in the dark), I’ve been working on the outline for my next novel, The Architect. The Architect is set to be my first truly large canvas psychological thriller in a good while (the first, I should say, I think I’ll be prepared to publish). A multiple viewpoint third person novel, it looks like being, judging by the outline, as large as it is complex (I think I’ll be lucky to bring it in under six hundred book pages)—something I relish, given that the novels I still love today generally lean towards the epic.

The Architect plays with themes touching on individual identity. Not an entirely new subject to me (I’m sure a few of my blog posts here have touched upon it in one form or another on occasion), and something all my novels touch upon, to a point. But with The Architect, I saw a way of doing something quite different. Resurrecting a couple of characters from one of my unpublished novels (the novel that, actually, secured me representation with an agent … an agent I then, a few months later, had a huge falling out with!), I found that they fit this form perfectly. Danny Lane, cerebral, caring, deeply introspective—a guy with type II spinal muscular atrophy (just like me, fancy that!)—came to life in my imagination in a way that he hadn’t previously, while Anderson Russell, Danny’s oldest friend, care assistant and general factotum balanced Danny in such a way that I knew, I know, that if I write this the way I want it … well, it has the potential to be both highly entertaining and thought-provoking (always my primary aim!)

Yes, I’m excited. There’s nothing I enjoy more than rolling up my sleeves and getting into the nitty-gritty of a fictional world. This one has required more preparation than any of my earlier novels (I’m still tweaking the chapter outlines to get the structure just right) and if the writing progresses the way the outlining has, I know it will be a thoroughly enjoyable process.

You know, it’s very easy to get disillusioned. (And I speak as someone who—all things considered, and in spite of my overwhelmingly cynical and occasionally apparently unforgiving demeanour—takes a lot of disillusioning.) The world we live in is packed to the brim with highly worthy individuals struggling to work their way up whichever particular occupational ladder they find themselves on, through accident of birth or academic qualification. And each and every one of them, I’m quite sure, has encountered numerous superior “types” barely qualified to make the office coffee. (And I’m not talking the kind of fancy coffee that none of us had heard of ten years ago—simple Nescafe instant would be enough of a struggle.)

It’s a problem. In the climate we today inhabit, the world and his brother, sister, bastard nephew and dribbling boss-eyed cousin knows better than we, the people who, like, you know, do this shit. At least, to hear them talk.

And this is especially true in publishing. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t one of those bridge burning moments. I’m not, truth be known, all that convinced I have any bridges left to burn in this regard. I do, however, aspire to have such bridges. I, like many other authors, yearn for the day when I can quietly sip my Laphroaig knowing that I have a nice three book deal with one of the big boys. But, whatever the outcome, certain things need to be said—certain truths need to be explored. So I thought … you know … why the fuck not?

I’m fallible. (That blindsided you, didn’t it? I know … I know—I kind of caught myself off guard with that one, but it’s true … no, really.) I’ve spent something like twenty-seven years developing my novel-writing ability, and have been writing far longer than that. From the age of twenty I’ve written more novels than I care to count (though I estimate it as somewhere in the region of twenty-five, with abandoned projects and screenplays on the side). I started off getting comments from agents that made it very clear I didn’t have the slightest idea of what writing a novel entailed—but within three or four novels I was receiving rejections that included phrases such as “well-written” and “challenging”. It became very clear very early on that this was not a mystical process but, rather, a learning process. And I learned, because of my love of fiction, very quickly. Nonetheless, I’ve never considered myself a writer working in isolation—someone, even now, who has perfected his art. It’s a perpetual process that is continually in need of input.

But this input has to come from the right people—and, increasingly, I find my vast experience (and as fallible as I am, I’m not quite stupid enough to deny my own hard-earned credentials) completely disregarded, often by people fresh out of Uni with very little understanding of the world I grew up in. Now, I know some of you may already be balking at this, but it is a very real problem: I’m coming up to 47 and, while I would certainly not suggest that people half my age could never begin to grasp the issues I prefer to address (they are, after all, often exceedingly universal), it is becoming increasingly clear to me that the weighting of the subject matter, the way it is presented, is in many regards not always as the industry first-contacts these days would prefer.

Now, I’m very aware that this may sound like one of those bitching author posts. “Oh, he’s been rejected again.” But this is how it is: I’ve been rejected by, and in one or two instances, briefly worked with (admittedly in the loosest possible sense), people who have worked with authors ranging from Updike to Fleming. I’ve also had the good fortune to be surrounded by very talented authors for decades. Consequently, I’m very aware of my failings as an author. I am also pretty well acquainted with my strengths—and, increasingly, I find that the very things I value in my own writing and in the writing of others are consistently and casually devalued by those I encounter in the industry. (I think it’s also extremely important to stress at this point that readers I speak to also find this as baffling and frustrating as I.)

That there is a focus on profit, of course, goes without saying. And quite understandably. Serious fiction is, quite often, unprofitable. Even well-written genre fiction, if it isn’t by an established name, can be a tough sell. And of course those in the industry are going to focus on the more marketable titles (the clue is in the word “industry”). But does this then mean that those rejecting 21st-century authors are presenting a fair assessment of the quality of the work being submitted?

Well, of course, in many instances it does. That dross is written today is as true as it ever was—more so, if anything, given that since the advent of word processing software etc all those years ago just about everyone is writing a novel. But it’s equally true that there is much fiction being written that will never fit the actually rather limited requirements of mainstream publishing today. I could bang on about Proust until I’m blue in the face, and once again extol the virtues of the new publishing paradigm represented by micro publishing, indie publishing, self publishing et cetera. But, instead, let me just state it very clearly: much incredible fiction is today being written that mainstream publishing will never touch and the new publishing paradigm is only rarely a solution to this problem.

A depressing conclusion, I know—and there are, it has to be said, countless exceptions (though these still only make up an exceedingly small minority). Nonetheless, it is becoming increasingly obvious that 21st-century authors are faced with considerable obstacles and numerous decisions. At the forefront of all this, however, is one question that has predominated all my writing “life”: why do you write?

If your primary consideration is one of profit, then I would suggest you try some other occupation. Using Amazon Kindle to push free copies of your work just might generate some interest—but, in my experience, this will lead to little more than Kindle number-lovers adding you to their endless list of freely-acquired Kindle books, Kindle books that they might get round to reading eventually. That there is the potential to generate profit from this is unquestionable; it is, however, statistically unlikely, given the sheer numbers involved and the increasingly devalued appreciation of quality. I’m not saying don’t give work away; I’m just saying be selective.

But should we, as authors, be thinking purely in terms of profit? Obviously, no. While we do have to have an awareness of our value as authors, it seems pretty basic to me that this should not be, can not be, the driving factor: if you do not love what you are doing for the sake of it, then shame on you. … And this is where I find myself retracing my thematic footsteps to my earlier comments regarding “input”: if you’ve reached the point where, like many of us, you’ve realised that many in the industry have a very different focus, are not, in some instances, even aware of the possibility of other focuses … does this not actually present a considerable opportunity? Put the numbers to one side. Forget, for a moment, that pressure to sell—and, instead, concentrate on writing what you want to write. In the past I’ve read criticism of my work—The Realm of the Hungry Ghosts, for example, being described as “disturbing”—and been baffled by the responses (if the aforementioned novel were not “disturbing”, to make my point, there would either be something wrong with me as a writer or something wrong with the reader). The vast majority “get” this. That there are points worthy of discussion, readers disagreeing on certain story elements, is something else entirely: such a basic lack of understanding of what fiction aims to accomplish, an at times overwhelming disregard for the fact that sometimes fiction is intended to annoy, disturb, upset, disgust, challenge, confuse and demand reveals that we, as authors, have to grasp that a substantial part of what we do is learning who to trust.

It’s important that we are open to feedback, that we understand the value of criticism. It is, however, equally important that we, once we have paid our dues, are aware of our own strengths, and our individual experiences. We have to learn to value our own abilities, and feel less reticent about questioning the opinions of those who have never in their lives written a novel (and, in many cases, haven’t read anywhere near the number of novels we ourselves have).

That some may not enjoy what I write is inevitable and natural. I’d be worried if this were not the case (I guess). But whatever particular individual’s view of my work, I have now reached the point where I can quite confidently state that there is absolutely nothing accidental about it (the occasional typo aside!). I know what I’m doing; if a particular reader does not take from it what I had hoped, then, just maybe, that isn’t my failing.

My job, as I see it, and whatever the requirements of 21st-century mainstream publishing, is to demand something of my reader. Blessedly, the majority seem to be up to the task (though, alas, they are not always those at the forefront of the “industry”).

As some of you will already know, my next novel,The Legacy of Lorna Lovelost, is due for publication on October 5 this year. Determined to prepare well in advance with this one, I’m ensuring that review copies go out a good six months before publication date.

It’s therefore my pleasure to announce that a limited number of review copies are now available—as Kindle editions or paperbacks (though I’m afraid I cannot make paperback editions available to overseas reviewers … unless you have a huge following, in which case I might make an exception). If you have a reasonable number of readers and might be interested, please check here from further details and if you still feel it might be something you’d like to review, contact me either here or via the above-mentioned website.

Please bear in mind that only a limited number of review copies are available and that well-established blogs will usually take precedence over new sites. This, however, should not put you off contacting me: if your blog is well-written, interesting and obviously going to attract more readers in the future—who knows? Drop me a line and we’ll discuss it.

Also, around the publication date I will be doing a blog tour. If you would be interested in hosting me … well, ladies and gents, you know what to do!